


Ask and Give: The Ritual of Conception

by Manniness



Series: One Promise Kept [6]
Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: (This story takes place prior to OPK: Book 3.)  Tarrant is an Outlander; Alice is from London. According to the queen’s copy of the Rites of Underland, in order for two individuals of different origins to have a child, certain sacrifices must be made.</p><p>Rating: M+ (for explicit sexual situations and mature themes, including submission and discomfort)</p><p>Notes: This ficlet was written for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_porn_battle/">aiw_porn_battle</a> 2011. I know many OPK readers have been curious about this and this LJ event seemed a good opportunity to make myself finally address the issue! (^__~)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask and Give: The Ritual of Conception

For the seventh day in a row, when Alice returns to the apartment she has shared with Tarrant for the last seven years, he is waiting for her.

 

“Welcome home, my Alice. Shall I prepare your bath?”

 

“Yes, thank you,” she replies, allowing him to remove her sword and dagger, belt and gauntlets, shoes and ankle braces. Thus she is disarmed. He holds out a chair for her at the table in their living room and, once she is comfortably seated and served tea and scones, he bustles into the en suite bathing room. All week he has attended to her every desire and comfort, just as the ritual had decreed. And now, tonight, he will Ask.

 

And – despite her nervousness and anxiety which guarantees that the tea and scones remain untouched – Alice knows she will Give. Yes, she is a bit afraid of what is coming, but she is also anticipating it as well. They had agreed to start a family and – after much discussion – she had convinced him to give her a Hightopp child, a child of Underland. _His_ child.

 

Tarrant emerges from the bathroom and, smiling, leans down to collect her hands in his. He walks backwards, leading her toward the steaming bath and Alice permits him to undress her. Her fingers itch to help him; she hates that he must serve her, but this is what the ritual entails and he had  _promised_ that he hadn ’t minded.

 

“ _Truly, Alice, it will be my pleasure to attend to you.”_ And peering into his peaceful expression, Alice notes his contented smile and admits that he had spoken the truth.

 

“Into the bath you go,” he announces when she is standing completely bare before him.

 

“Kiss me first?” she whispers, hesitantly. A Champion of the White Queen she may be, but this... attention rattles her.

 

He obliges immediately, pressing his warm lips against hers, kneading them gently with his own, and, occasionally, the tip of his tongue emerges to caress her softly. She shivers and pulls away when she would have demanded more.

 

No, it is not yet time for More. But it will be  _ soon. _

 

She steps into the tub and watches as Tarrant rolls up his shirtsleeves. He washes her back, her neck,  her hair and towels her dry with extreme care.

 

“What can I make you for dinner, Raven?”

 

Her stomach twists into a knot. “I... I had tea with Mirana,” she murmurs. It is a White Lie – she had had tea and sandwiches hours and hours ago, but... “I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.”

 

He doesn’t believe her – she can see it in the speculative tilt of his chin – but he does not press her. “You’re very tense, Alice. Come.”

 

Tarrant wraps towels warmed by the hearth around her and, once again, leads her through the apartment. She follows him into their bedroom and, at his urging, lies down on the bed. She allows the towels to fall away from her, feeling inexplicably shy in the presence of her husband. She watches as he reaches for the small bottle of scented oil and pours a bit into his bare and unbandaged hands. She finds herself mesmerized by his bare forearms and the ropes of sinewy muscle moving beneath his skin. She shudders with anticipation.

 

He turns back to her with a smile and, seating himself on the bed, collects one of her bare feet in his warm, slick hands, and begins kneading the tired, aching muscles. Alice leans back and closes her eyes. “Tell me about your day,” she bids him, just to hear the sound of his voice. He complies readily, describing in detail the conversations he’d had and the accomplishments he’d managed in the hat workshop. Little by little, she relaxes. When he urges her to roll over, she does so without a moment’s hesitation.

 

He rubs her thighs, her hips, her back and shoulders. He then wipes his hands on one of the discarded towels and urges her to sit up. She does, bracing herself on his spread knees, and allows him to brush her hair. She marvels at his touch, as gentle as a whisper.

 

“Tarrant...” she whispers, tilting her head to the side and inviting him...

 

He presses a kiss to the side of her neck. “Alice... Have I pleased you these past seven days?”

 

“You have,” she replies, her stomach tightening at the thought of what comes next, now that the courting period has been completed. Seven days of tender, attentive service. Seven days of proving his dependability and sincerity and affection. It had seemed silly to Alice when she had read of this stage in the text: Tarrant has spent the last seven  _ years  _ proving his dependability and sincerity and  _ love _ to her.

 

“’Tis necessary, my Alice,” he had replied when she had objected. And now she finds that he had been right. She feels... different. Her body feels... different. She  _ wants _ him in a way that feels rather alien to her. It is difficult to describe.

 

Tarrant leaves her seated on the bed and slides gracefully to the floor in front of her. She hates seeing him on his knees before her, but – again – the Ritual of Conception had been very clear on this point. He lifts his luminous green-blue gaze to hers and – with his palms raised in supplication – speaks:

 

“Have I proven my intentions clearly, my Alice?”

 

“You have,” she repeats and, swallowing thickly, continues, recites, “and I invite you to request a boon.  My  body and strength allowing, it will be yours.”

 

She watches as Tarrant pauses, takes a deep breath. “A bairn,” he whispers. “I would ask o’ ye a wee bairn – a lass ’r a lad – f’r mae boon.”

 

Alice licks her lips, nervous. This is the part that most distresses her. But there is no stopping now. She wants this.  _ He  _ wants this. She glances toward the head of the bed and, stretching, removes a length of soft, silk cord from beneath her pillow. She offers it to her husband with trembling hands and she offers herself. “Then I submit my body to you for your use.”

 

Alice startles when his warm hands touch hers. He does not take the cord, however.

 

“Alice?” he whispers, his brows twitching with worry and anxiety.

 

“I’m sure,” she tells him. “I want your child, Tarrant. Please.”

 

The color of his irises deepens further to a rich, infinite blue. With a nod and a fortifying breath, he accepts the silk cord from her trembling fingers. Very gently, he loops one end of the cord around her left wrist and ties it. He then encircles the opposite wrist with the remaining length. Alice watches as her husband carefully binds her. She will not be able to undo these knots herself, but she knows they will not injure her or even chafe her skin. No, it will merely be the  _ idea  _ that she has been bound which will cause her distress. But she knows it is necessary. For this ritual, for Tarrant’s child to be carried by her womb, she must submit to him. He had wooed her so that her body would not object. And now she must become the vessel for his seed. Tarrant had tried to talk her out of it – the ritual does not  _ explicitly _ demand the submissive partner to be bound – but Alice very firmly believes she will be unable to submit totally unless she is.

 

“I never do things by half,” she had told him. “And I won’t start now. Not with our child.”

 

She closes her eyes and lets out a long breath.

 

“Alice?” he checks.

 

She opens her eyes and finds a smile for him. “I’m fine.”

 

He studies her face for a long moment and then his expression changes. It is the ritual, she knows, that puts that steely gleam in his eyes. She suppresses a shiver as he reaches for the buttons on his shirt. “Then kneel on the bed, my Alice.”

 

Completely nude, she does. He does not tell her to place her hands on the bed, but she does when she feels the mattress dip behind her. They have made love this way a few times, but Alice much prefers a more active role; she would rather see Tarrant’s face, kiss him, wrap her arms and legs around him. And she knows he feels the same.

 

She startles when his hands – softened from the massage oil and so warm – caress her hips. She reminds herself to breathe as he gently but firmly rubs her back. “Alice,” he whispers, warns her, and she braces herself. One of his hands leaves her skin and then she feels him nudge against her entrance. They have not been intimate all week and this position has never been very comfortable for her; it will hurt, she knows. She tries not to think about it; she does not want Tarrant to feel her apprehension through the heart line, for there is nothing to be done about it. The ritual requires what is necessary from them: Alice’s submission and Tarrant’s dominance. Whatever discomfort she experiences will be a small price to pay for the miracle of their child.

 

And then he is pressing into her, stretching her. Alice bites her lip and resists pulling away from him. She stares determinedly at her bound wrists: she is  _ his _ to do with as he wishes. This is the only way the ritual will succeed. He pauses although she knows he has not sheathed himself fully. He waits. She releases a breath, takes another, exhales once more and feels her body loosen a fraction. He presses forward again until he can move in no more.

 

“Alice...” he murmurs and she hears in his voice a whisper of his kind, gentle, passionate, _true_ self. It helps as does the feel of his hands moving over her back, urging her to relax. It begins slow. He moves carefully, asserting his will over the power of the ritual and the desire to claim his wish. She appreciates the effort and the consideration more than she can say. But she knows this will not be enough.

 

“Tarrant, you have Asked me for an heir. I Give to you. Take,” she invites him in the language of the ritual.

 

“Alice?” he checks, holding completely still.

 

She glances over her shoulder at him. “I want this,” she reminds him, and then she purposefully tenses her inner muscles around him.

 

She watches as his eyes unfocus, his bare chest expands suddenly with his gasp. Her heart line burns with intention and want and need and  _ now! _ She watches as he gives himself to the magic they have evoked. And then the force of his next thrust has her slipping-sliding-crashing! from her palms to her elbows. He grips her hips, holds her in position as he  _ drives _ into her. She barely feels his withdrawals, so overwhelmed is she by the force of his thrusts. He is too deep and he strikes something within her, something hard – perhaps the very entrance to her womb – and it aches and throbs with every thrust he executes, but she does not ask him to stop, to slow, to be gentle. For this ritual, he must Take. For this ritual, she must Give. This is not about pleasure.

 

This is about their child, their Hightopp.

 

It hurts and she imagines this must be hurting him as well. Her eyes tear and she is an instant away from telling him to stop; she is willing to risk injuring herself but not him!

 

And then one hand slides over her hip and beneath her. She feels his fingers press against her flesh, rub to and fro against that hard, little nub that brings her so much pleasure...

 

And there  _ is  _ pleasure, just as there is pain and it takes her higher and deeper into her own consciousness than she has ever gone before.

 

“Tarrant!”

 

He kisses her neck, her shoulders, her spine. His fingers continue their gentle massage even as his  hardness drives painfully deep. She loses herself in the sensations – gentle and rough, pleasure and pain, and his hot breath puffing against her skin and  _ she wants him! _

 

He whines out a moan, his hips moving faster now. She spreads her knees a bit more, presses against the touch that makes her forget her own name, makes her forget her very  _ existence. _

 

His thrusts become carefully and regularly measured; his breathing stops. Alice hears only her own pants and groans in the room. His fingers twitch against her flesh and she feels herself falling into the tight, hot, darkness of Release.

 

Tarrant screams softly against her shoulder. His hips twitch once more. And then again. And, a moment later, for the last time.

 

She lays her head down upon her bound hands, presses her forehead against her knuckles and breathes.

 

It is done.

 

“Alice?” His whisper is frightened and she knows why. He had lost himself to something very much like the madness, and she had not been there, reaching for him through the heart line to call him back. She had clamped down upon her own emotions rather than risk him knowing that she had not been enjoying this mating. She had strangled back all feeling and she is still not yet confident that she can convince him of her willing acquiescence.

 

“Alice, please!” he rasps and she can hear panic now in his tone. She can feel it battering at her heart.

 

“I wanted this,” she reminds him, and then – with a sigh – lets herself Reach for him. She knows he cannot feel the aching of her body, but he can feel what is  _ missing _ from her heart. She is still tense rather than content. And she loves him  _ fiercely _ rather than warmly, effortlessly, infinitely.

 

When he sobs softly, she knows he has Felt the difference. “Never again, my Alice,” he promises, easing out of her as gently as possible. He neglects his own dripping sex and lays her down gently. He frantically tears at the knots on the silk cord and swears, “Never again!”

 

He presses warm kisses to her temple and forehead, to her cheek and chin. “Never again will you feel pain in our bed, when we come together. Ye shou’nae ha’felt pain a’tall. No pain. None!”

 

She can only watch him bite back sobs. Her throat feels clogged and stiff; she cannot manage a single word.

 

“It took me,” he nearly whimpers. “Ye were in pain an’ I di’nae see it, feel it, and I... unforgivable!” He tosses the cords across the room and licks daintily at her neck. “Let me pleasure you, Alice," he lisps. "Please. Will you trust me?”

 

She would have told him that it is not necessary; he does not need to make amends for what he had been Compelled to do. But he needs this: he needs this reaffirmation to prove to himself that he  _ is  _ himself again.

 

Alice wraps her arms around his shoulders, arches into his touch, trusts him as freely and completely as she always has. “Tarrant...” And he kisses, nibbles, licks, blows, and brushes against her breasts.  Mindlessly, she presses her pelvis against his thigh. “Your mouth, please, Tarrant.  _ There _ ...”

 

She should not ask him to, not with his own seed and her wetness messily smearing over her flesh and inner thighs, but the thought of his soft, hot tongue soothing away the memory of the soreness...

 

He does not hesitate. He groans as she gives herself over to his warm hands. He coaxes her thighs wider, gently presses her open with his thumbs, and applies his tongue to her. Once again, she is lost, but this time her heart races for a different reason, her brows knit out of the intensity of the pleasure, her breaths shorten until she becomes dizzy.

 

“Tarrant...” she begs.

 

And then he purses his lips around her – around that small, hard nub – and sucks.

 

She shudders, shivers, arches and reaches, claws at the bedclothes and moans out a scream from between her clenched teeth. And then she floats, tingling and warm, sated and content in a sea of existence. Tarrant wraps his arms around her carefully.

 

“Mogh’linyea?” he breathes.

 

“Raven?” she murmurs, nuzzling his neck.

 

“Have I pleased you, my Alice?”

 

“Hmm,” she replies. “You have, my Raven. You have.” She blinks open her eyes and frowns as a disturbing thought occurs to her:  _ surely _ he should  _ not _ have submitted to  _ her  _ pleasure! “But the ritual...?!”

 

“Is finished,” he assures her. “My Champion, my beautiful Alice, my  _ brave  _ wife.” He nuzzles her hair and presses a hand to her lower belly. “It is finished. Was finished. It’s fine.”

 

And she realizes he’s right: that strange echo-of-a-hollow-stomach Need that she had felt – the odd, mindless Want of her body – now seems... satiated. She feels... complete in a way she hasn’t before and it is different from the feeling that follows their usual love making. It is qualitatively... unique.

 

She closes her eyes, leans into him, and releases a long breath. “Our child...” she muses, every previous concern fading in the wake of realization.

 

“Aye,” he whispers warmly, “our child, my Alice. Our littlin’... Our first, our last, our only...”

 

Alice does not ask him why he will not give her another, why he will not risk giving himself to the power of this ritual again. In truth, she is not sure she is capable of even this one, but she wants this child, her Tarrant’s child.

 

“Forgive me, Alice,” he breathes against her temple. “This ritual... the pain you bore shouldnae ha’happened a’tall an’...!”

 

“It is finished,” she interrupts softly. She looks into his eyes, brushes his lips with hers, presses her forehead to his and gently shakes her head. “Ask and Give, Raven,” she reminds him. “Ask... and Give.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to address several issues that are never really highlighted in OPK.
> 
> First, I wanted to explain why Alice and Tarrant never seem to seriously consider having more children. This is a rather... complicated memory to have to face a second time. Plus, Tarrant doesn’t want to lose himself and hurt her again. And then there’s the issue of Alice perhaps needing medical attention Above if she encounters complications with her pregnancy. (Tarrant realizes this potential problem well after Alice is pregnant in OPK 3.)
> 
> The second issue: I imagine Tarrant agreed to keep Alice’s pregnancy a secret in part out of guilt due to Alice’s lack of enjoyment in the Ritual of Conception. This might also explain why it takes months before Tarrant makes any suggestions about names; one could argue he is trying to compensate for his earlier “failure” by being overly indulgent.
> 
> Third, I wanted to have Alice express her thoughts about becoming a mother. As we can see, it’s not so much the thought of becoming a mother that she focuses on as Tarrant’s happiness and the fact that she wants Tarrant’s child. (I can empathize with this. I have no desire to be a mother, personally, but there are moments when I think I would like my husband’s child . If that makes any sense.)
> 
> Finally, in light of the challenge Alice faces in Book 3 - and her conscious efforts to trust Tarrant and let him take the lead in some things, including taking care of her - can perhaps be seen in a new light now.


End file.
